


Lingua Franca

by deuil



Category: Lupin III
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-03
Updated: 2015-02-03
Packaged: 2018-03-10 07:21:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3281837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deuil/pseuds/deuil
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jigen and Lupin and languages.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lingua Franca

It comes as no surprise to Lupin that the only French phrases that his partner has bothered to memorize are the hellos and goodbyes (a throwaway “ _ciao_ ” in deadpan, which isn’t incorrect as much as it is lazy), the “where is the…”s, and the lyrics to _Les Feuilles Mortes_ by Jacques Prévert. The fact poses no real threat to their currently-pending plans, unfinished in the form of half-drawn maps and a pile of emergency disguises, but Lupin toys with the idea of testing his partner anyway, who is currently curled up on the sofa of their shabby Montmartre apartment, 5 floors up without an elevator. The ventilation is terrible, the smell worse— tobacco diffused into the wallpaper, brown-yellow like a combination of sweat and rust— but their discomfort is routine, the claustrophobia even more so. A screwdriver in one hand, snaked between adroit fingers, Lupin looks up from his perch on moldy flooring, the corner of his mouth that’s unoccupied by a cigarette quirked up to punctuate his mood.

“And you say you’re not a romantic, Jigen-chan,” he whistles between his teeth, depositing traces of Gitanes into the air. “ _Jacques Prévert_ , huh? Alright, loverboy— let’s hear it.”

Lupin hums the first few bars of the song in question accompanied by his Phillips, which kindly makes a guest appearance as an impromptu baton. The sound of vague contempt that Jigen returns, hat over his face and his legs thrown up over the arm of their nearly-collapsing couch, is predictable but not entirely unkind; a concession that’s followed by parroted verses in rhythm with Lupin’s singing in a tone that’s damply obtuse, syllables like mallets hitting musty wood. A tar-stained “r” rolls uncomfortably, the sound of an engine thrumming under the weight of disuse and age.

“You know,” Lupin says, after Jigen finishes. “I don’t think the language of love’s ever suffered so valiantly on anyone else’s tongue.”

Jigen tilts the brim of his hat over his eyes, clicks his heels together like the click of a tongue.

“That’s why you do the talking for the both of us,” he says with finality, and that’s that: Lupin doesn’t press, and only laughs as he slides over to rest his back against the cushioning of the chair, head slanted to tickle the hem of Jigen’s new Givenchys. 

 

\--

 

Lupin is strangely accommodating for the next few days. 

Orders are taken and given for both their meals, directions asked and greetings offered always for two— Jigen hardly speaks for the duration of the week, content to be the punctuation to Lupin’s elaborate sentences, familiarizing himself with monosyllabic methods of communication when not in the comfort of their own space. On every occasion that someone asks Lupin if the gentleman waiting outside with his hands in his pockets doesn’t want to come inside, Lupin takes it upon himself to answer with a cheerful, almost proud: “he doesn’t speak a word of French”.

Jigen memorizes how those words look like on Lupin’s lips, just by the sheer number of times he sees his partner say them through windows and partitions. He finds himself imitating the phrase when he’s bored, finds himself going through the motions, but ultimately decides that it belongs in better, more capable hands.

 

\--

 

That weekend, a man in blue waves his standard issue SP 2022 at the two of them as they cram themselves into their yellow Fiat, and yells: “police!”

“Hey, I understood that one!” Jigen barks, and Lupin tosses his head back, howling.

 

\--

 

They’re back in their closet of an apartment, sweat-slicked from their latest chase, clothes tracing lines of Paris streets in their wrinkles. Stumbling into the cramped space of their hideout, dodging semi-finished gadgets left abandoned during their creation, they fall against the opposite wall laughing in appreciation of near-death experiences that are akin to a well-worn joke by now. A flick of the wrist, and whatever precious gemstone they’ve just pilfered rolls into a pile of dirty laundry, indistinguishable from the other clutter.

Lupin is the first to break their mutual wordlessness, the one to segue frantic panting into something greedier and needier; high on victory and adrenaline, feet stuttering against old flooring in inexplicable impatience before pivoting neatly to position himself in front of Jigen. He whispers something in French, unintelligible but disarmingly sweet, and Jigen puts up one hand in instinctive defense.

“Lupin,” he manages to say between short breaths, before Lupin steals it all in one flourish, lips over lips and fingers tangled in fingers. Jigen feels his back hit the wall, wonders if he won’t pitch backwards and go right through it and down onto the pavement. Death by Lupin: it feels apt. Somewhere in the limited space that separates himself from his partner, he feels a hand move to undo his tie, a thumb slide between buttons and fabric to trace a circle along his chest. 

“Idiot, I’m gonna fall over—” Jigen hisses between grit teeth, neck craned in protest or to accommodate Lupin’s face against it, he doesn’t know. A deep inhale, and Jigen catches the smell of Lupin’s cologne above the scent of stale coffee and nicotine, curses softly under his breath as he feels himself go hard against Lupin’s knee. His partner’s reply is another stream of sickly-saccharine French, something something _amour_ , something something _coeur_ , which makes him sound almost like a stranger, a borrowed persona in Lupin’s skin. It’s nearly enough to make Jigen feel awkward, if not for the stolen glance that Lupin pitches from the hollow of Jigen’s shoulder, the glint of knowing in dark eyes as he grazes teeth over skin and leaves a mark that Jigen forgets to protest.

“Idiot,” he says again, but it’s only to posture; he fumbles in the dark for Lupin’s belt, finds it just above the outline of his partner’s dick in his pants. He can hear Lupin’s breath hitch, high and excited, and feels clever fingers scrambling to reciprocate against his hips and waist, discourteous to the brand-name shirt tucked into his brand-name pants but far beyond caring. Leaning in, Jigen bumps the side of his head against Lupin’s, silently makes a demand for a kiss that’s obliged as easily as the effort of sliding both of their pants down to their knees (those hands have undone more obstinate locks, after all). It’s difficult for Jigen to balance all of it, hard to hold Lupin’s weight on locked knees, and he groans into his partner’s mouth, strained, as warm palms rub against his hardon and starts stroking.

“Say something,” he manages as he reaches between Lupin’s legs, touches him and tries to elicit something other than that reedy French. Their hips rocking against each other seem too loud and too obvious between these thin walls, and the sound their feet make braced on precarious foundations reminds Jigen of the creak of cheap mattresses; the pace of their hands quickens, and Lupin hums something vague against Jigen’s hair again in response to the request. 

“ _Répétez_ ,” is what he makes out amidst the noise, faint teasing wound gently in between smooth syllables. _Are you fucking with me_ , is what Jigen would say under normal circumstances, but he knows that the answer to that hypothetical question is, in fact, a literal “yes”— their knuckles brush together as they start pumping in unison, and Jigen mumbles a quick _shit_ instead of the intended response. 

“ _Répétez_ ,” Lupin says again, squeezing gently on Jigen’s erection, and Jigen feels like he’d agree to anything his partner asks of him at that point. He nods, his teeth clamped over his lower lip, concentrating on that hand and that voice whispering hotly against his ear in a language that Jigen can’t decipher. His first attempt to repeat whatever sweet nothings Lupin is saying comes in a jumble of mangled syllables, clamped between guttural moans that are drawn out from a particularly vicious brush of Lupin’s calloused fingers against his dick. 

“I’m gonna kill you after this is over,” he growls, voice like sandpaper. Lupin laughs, pressing up and into similarly-calloused palms, finding that hard bump on Jigen’s trigger finger and targeting it with a ferocity that he shows towards everything he covets. The knowledge of that burns bright in Jigen’s cheeks, prompts an involuntary curl of his shoulders inwards and another bump of hip against hip, mid-rut. Stumbling over whatever French nonsense Lupin is hissing again, he snaps borrowed phrases into the collar of Lupin’s jacket, trading delirious promises until it’s impossible to draw a distinction between where his sentences end and Lupin’s begin.

When he finally comes, exhale caught between a consonant and a hoarse whine, Jigen hears Lupin say “I know”; and following it, with no opportunity for questioning or rebuttal, a quick kiss. Purloined. 

“And you say you’re not a romantic,” Lupin laughs, as if that fact is enough to pitch him over the edge, as if the past few days spent lounging in Montmartre was a setup for this precise moment; a perfect win, a stolen confession. The tempo of Lupin’s chuckles lags in time with the now-languid pace of his movements, slackened to savor the heat of Jigen’s skin without the urgency of an overarching plan. Dazed, Jigen catches a glint of their abandoned score out of the corner of his eye, blearily wonders if it’s even worth anything, but the creak of floorboards under his feet interrupts his musing— a universal language in any part of the world— and he focuses his attention on his partner again, ignoring the soft sound of _Les Feuilles Mortes_ rising gently from the room beneath them.


End file.
